Pleasing Two Masters
by George Plutarch
Summary: HARD FICTION MA RATING. so i've opted to make this my little kink meme, full of varying kinds of smut and depravity. everything from BDSM kinks, johnlockstrade, omega!verse, etre cetra. comment on what you want to see, it will be ficlets, some chapters will go together, but msot won't. it will be obvious. warnings within in CH headings.
1. Johnlockstrade 1

**A/N" awwww havent had enough Johnlock porn for today? here ya go. a pretty two-shot coming your way. chapter 2 will be finished when i get around to it. this one hit me while i was in the post office today. go figure.**

**warnings:**** BDSM hogtying, suspension, toying, beating with cane and riding crop, a-frame, rimming, deep-throating, and finally, the most obvious, m/m sex**

**Chapter 1:**

"Oh, FUCK," Sherlock bellowed, face turning beet red as it hung between his ankles. He was bent double over a padded sawhorse, a rubber plug deep in his arse, with John standing right behind him, his trusty riding crop in hand. The smaller man made no sound, but John could just _feel_ the smile playing on his lips as he raised the crop again, bringing it down possibly even harder on Sherlock's already stinging arse. He shook his head slightly to get the dog tags out of his face. They were his collar of choice; he wore them under everything, close to his skin. It made John hot when he saw them, too.

"Are you ready to apologize, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, walking around to the front of Sherlock and fisting a hand in his curls, yanking his head up so they could see each other. The detective struggled to swallow, his long pale neck strained as it was.

"If I had done something _wrong_ I would, John. Correcting you isn't _wrong_. You just didn't like it. So, NO," he growled, fisting his hands in their cuffs as he prepared for another blow. It never came. Instead, John grasped the base of the plug and tugged it out in one smooth motion, causing his lover's hole to clench uncomfortably before three fingers wormed their way into the stretched space.

"Gah! Warn a man first," he chided, flexing his overstretched thighs as much as he could. John had him completely sprawled out, as far as he could reach, tip-toe to fingertips brushing the carpet on either side of the wooden frame in the middle of the sitting room. His own erection bobbed in the empty air, devoid of any contact. He silently begged for either some friction, or an ungodly amount of prostate stimulation; he might choke John in his sleep if he didn't get to come after this. He looked down between his feet at John's ankles.

The man was still fully clothed?! He narrowed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when a soft knock echoed through the room. The doctor pressed the toy back in Sherlock's arse and went to the door to the flat.

"John!" he cried, tugging at the bonds ferociously. He did NOT sign up for getting caught red-assed and naked in the living room! "John don't you _dare!_" he hissed, still trying to escape.

"Oh, hello, Greg." John opened the door the rest of the way, letting the DI into the room fully. Sherlock stilled. A low whistle permeated the silence, originating from Lestrade. Sherlock let his head hang, watching Lestrade walk deeper into the room, eyes glued to the scene before him. His skin prickled, and not from the beating he'd taken already.

"Pretty sight," he hummed, reaching out and running a gentle hand over the consulting detective's ravaged arse.

"He's been downright mouthy today, Greg. What do you recommend?" Greg tossed his coat over the arm of the sofa, leaning back in a pensive pose.

Sherlock only had to be patient for a moment. "John, I suppose you lot have rope around here? I'd love to hogtie the prat," he suggested. John nodded and retreated into their bedroom. Lestrade picked up the riding crop from the sofa and ran it through his fingers, walking around Sherlock in a slow circle before standing behind him again. Sherlock trembled a bit in his bonds. John had returned form the bedroom and threw down a huge amount of binding rope in the sofa. Greg smirked and raised the crop, bringing it down hard over Sherlock's hip. Fiberglass curved over bony flesh and the detective opened his mouth in a silent scream, a choked sob coming out instead as the retreat of the crop brought the pain in full force and a red welt was instantly raised on his skin. God, it was almost worse than a caning. Almost. Only now his skin screamed for want of bloodletting to reduce the swelling and the crop wasn't hard enough to induce the ripping of skin. Not quite, but Greg had almost achieved that goal. His thigh tremored with the spread of the pain through his nerves. _Groby_, he almost said it, it was on the tip of his tongue. _No_, his head demanded. You can do this.

"Jesus," he breathed, his breath catching as his hair was caught and his head yanked back. Greg held him still as John jammed a spider-gag in between his bicuspids and bucked it tight. It left his mouth nice and open for a cock but no coherent speech.

"Can you snap your fingers?" Lestrade asked, waiting for Sherlock to do so.

He didn't, smirking slightly. Well then.

"Oh, Greg I forgot to mention. He's a bit of a pain whore. You practically have to beat responses out of him or else leave him there to rot all hard and wanting until he caves." John was relaxing on the sofa now, next to the pile of ropes and very near Sherlock's head, leg crossed over his knee, brandy glass balanced there. Sherlock groaned, writhing against the sawhorse.

"Hmm." Greg swallowed his brandy, which John had handed him before he sat down, and set the glass on the coffee table on the other side of Sherlock's head. He tracked the movements with those pale eyes, trying to predict what Greg was thinking. The older man stooped and started unbuckling the cuffs, letting them drop from Sherlock's ankles and wrist. He pulled the detective up by his hair into a standing position and then pushed him down onto all fours. "Kneel," he growled. Sherlock knelt, hands splayed over his thighs, eyes on Greg's boots. "I suppose you have a ceiling hook in here somewhere?" the DI asked, sweeping the ceiling for such a device.

"Erm, yeah actually. In the bedroom," John supplied, gathering the rope back up and snapping his fingers at Sherlock. The tallest man followed the doctor on his hand and knees into his old bedroom which was now their bedroom. Greg followed, watching the rubber disc of the arse plug sway back and forth with Sherlock's hips. Next to the bed were affixed three ceiling hooks, in a straight row.

Perfection. Greg smirked.

"Alright then, what are our specific parameters?" he clapped his hands, looking at John. Neither of them had looked at Sherlock once since he stopped his crawling next to the foot of the bed. He pouted as much as he could with the metal gag jamming his teeth open.

"Well, Sherlock doesn't have any lines for us to not cross. He will literally do anything you tell him to, if he's in the right mind to obey, that is. He gets finicky; hard to handle, but the end game is the same. He gets off on attention, pain, and being bound and used, et cetera. Just doesn't do well when you leave him alone in a room all tied up."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. "Watching?" John nodded. He even saw Sherlock nod imperceptibly out of the corner of his eye. "Safeword?" he asked.

"_Gladstone_," John replied, finally looking back at Sherlock, who nodded once. "The pause word for giving a rest on say, a beating, but not ending the scene, is _Groby_," he added, shifting the weight in his feet. Greg nodded, reaching past John for a length of rope. Sherlock stirred on the floor, his usually pale eyes tracking every move, devouring it.

"On your back," Greg ordered. "Knees bent, feet flat on the floor. Put your ankles as close to your bum as you can," he watched as Sherlock did as he was told, measuring out the rope in his hands. Then he knelt, wrapping one end of the rope several times around Sherlock's thin ankle, tying it off and looping the rope through the five bands of hemp before moving the rest of the rope to do the same to the man's upper thigh, right where it narrowed back down to meet the hip. Greg dipped his head and licked the wound he'd marked Sherlock's hip bone with very delicately, making the youngest man in the room whimper and jerk a bit on the carpet. Greg smirked and continued to tie Sherlock's ankle to his thigh, rendering him totally unable to stretch his leg back out. He did the same to the other leg.

"Sit up," he ordered, helping the lanky man do so after a bit of difficulty. Greg proceeded to bind his chest and narrow waist in a sort of harness with another length of rope, weaving the lines in between each other, making sure to quadruple the strength under his pectorals and around each shoulder, under the armpit. The lines from his torso were looped through the lines around his upper thighs and were brought back together into a huge knot in the center of his back, a hook affixed to the center of the knot. He stood up. The next bit was going to require some heavy lifting.

John was standing on the bed now, linking a short chain to the center hook. Greg watched him carefully, as did Sherlock. The youngest man had been surprisingly quiet this whole time.

Once John was safely on the ground again, Greg bent and scooped up the lanky detective and deposited him on the bed on his stomach. His heels were resting on his arse now, with his legs bound, opening his tender bits to them helplessly. He writhed a bit, waiting under their combined scrutiny. John locked eyes with Sherlock, silently getting him to lie still as Greg pulled his arms back. Sherlock thought for one wild second that he was going to be bound with his arms back there, when instead he felt the cool metal of Greg's bloody _handcuffs_ clicking over each wrist. God this was so much hotter, he thought, burying his face in the duvet.

But just then, another length of rope fell against his back. What the…? He turned his face to try and look back as Greg picked up his arms and brought the rope under them, wrapping it tightly around his elbows. The bones clinked together, and Sherlock groaned, his member throbbing into the duvet now. He twisted his hips a little, trying to gain purchase with his bound legs for some thrusting.

A hard smack brought his thighs close together with a smack, a shuddering gasp taking the room as his arse cheek burned. Greg was smiling. John had done that! Sherlock lifted his head and snarled at the doctor, earning his a backhand across the cheek. Another moan, this time caught by the mattress as he was scooted across it like a ragdoll. To be truthful, he was about as limp as one now, all tied up and useless. Greg came around the bed to help John get his harness hooked to the chain dangling from the ceiling. Once he was secured, Greg pushed the detective off the bed, his body bracing for impact and eyes flying wide when he actually realized how helpless and stuck he truly was. He kicked his legs a bit, but of course went nowhere. John was smiling at him evilly, that glint he only got when Sherlock was in trouble and he _knew_ he wasn't walking out of this bedroom with a straight gait anytime this week. He whimpered, lowering his head to them both, begging for a bit of mercy.

Nope.

John came forward, placing a cool hand on Sherlock's reddened cheek. The younger man curled into it, almost purring from the gentle touch. Greg sat back and watched, letting the man's true Dom take over for a minute. He was only here to play, after all. And my, what a lovely game this was turning out to be.

He'd known about these two from the get go, unable to resist the way Sherlock looked at John when he was reprimanded, or stood close to him when he was getting a scolding, the averting of his eyes always a clear indicator. But everyone else only saw it as a way that Sherlock ignored John, or put his words off. Greg knew better. Sherlock adored John, the same way that the doctor did the little nutter he was living with. It was a match made in heaven, and they'd invited Greg along for a ride. Of course, Sherlock hadn't known that he was coming _today_, per se, but he did know that John had asked, and he'd given his consent enthusiastically.

Stepping back, John unbuckled the spider gag, letting the detective work his mouth open and shut for a minute as he tied a strip of black cloth over his eyes, snug so that he couldn't open them under it. Sherlock grimaced but quickly sucked in a breath as John ran a hand down his entire body, playing in the ropes supporting and suspending his lithe body in the center of the room. John settled back behind Sherlock, fingers toying with the plug that was still buried in his arse. There was a switch on it for vibration, and he tripped it, watching as Sherlock's body arced up and then down again in his ropes, a silent gasp taking hold in his chest.

"Well, I didn't know that it vibrated!" fussed Greg, slapping his thigh and scoffing. John smiled, reaching under Sherlock to palm his erection, letting the man feel his own pressed against his thigh, right next to the ropes. Sherlock whined, hands fisting behind his back. Lestrade came over and took the elbows, bringing them up and tying them to the chain as tight as he could, so that the limbs weren't in the way of anything when the actual penetration came into play.

"Gregory," John called his attention. The DI looked up before realizing that John was on his knees half-under Sherlock, toying with his erection. "Take his mouth. He loves to suck cock, don't you Sherlock?" the doctor purred, licking Sherlock's thigh teasingly. It elicited and yelp and a slight jump before he realized that such a move made the plug press against his prostate cruelly. He hummed an affirmative. John slapped his thigh, hard.

"You start using your words, Sherlock or I'll get the cane and beat some into you," he threatened, the army captain coming out in his voice.

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock whispered. "Yes, Detective Lestrade, sir I love to suck cock. May I taste yours? On the back of my throat?" he asked, innocently, licking that astonishing Cupid's bow.

Greg wrapped a hand around his long pale throat, picking the man up for a deep kiss, tongue violating his mouth and beating his own tongue into submission before he simply let him go, arms tightening in their ropes as he fell back into the hold of the harness. A gasp had wracked the room, the terror Sherlock felt as he thought he was going to land on his face, forgetting the ropes surrounding him. He relaxed into them again, feeling the plug being pulled out of his arse by John and gently pressed back in. he could feel short hairs on his thigh and knew that John was trying to distract him.

How do you play to two Doms at once?

"That would be Detective Inspector Lestrade, you needy little slag," he growled, yanking Sherlock's hair hard so that he swayed toward the DI in his bonds. The younger man yelped and struggled a bit, trying to find John again in the interim. The doctor caught his legs as he swayed back, grounding him. The dog tags clinked on his chest as momentum was rebalanced.

"Sorry, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please use me," he added in a whisper, opening his mouth and waiting. Greg sighed, unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers down; he'd known he was coming here today and had left out the pants. Just as well anyway, there was no need for them. He looked up at John, asking silent permission from the resident Dom over his slave. John nodded, pulling the arse plug fully out of Sherlock and replacing it with two fingers. The man moaned wantonly, hips shifting up and down slightly in the ropes. Greg lurched forward, pressing the tip of his cock to Sherlock's lips.

Ah, here was the man he found strung out in an alley five years ago, choking on a cock with a baggie of coke in his back pocket. The professional fellator, folks. By _Christ_ he could make a lot of money on the street if he'd had the mind to.

Sherlock nuzzled, lapping at the bead of precome on Greg's head before taking it into his mouth more fully. He worked his way down to the root, swirling his tongue impossibly the whole way down.

"God," he groaned, thrusting a bit into the younger man's mouth. His eyes trailed down the slim spine to where John was working, buried between Sherlock's arse cheeks. "Getting yourself a nice rim job there, are yeh?" he asked, rolling his eyes against the groan from Sherlock and tapping his finger against the younger man's cheek. "Nah-ah," he chided. "No biting or I will go get that cane pole."

Sherlock pressed his teeth in slow and gentle just at the base, teasing. Was Greg just as full of false promises as John was? Really, the doctor never _beat_ him. Not like he wanted him to.

Greg pulled out of Sherlock's throat, leaving his mouth gaping into the open air. He froze, and felt John do the same against his back side. Sherlock writhed, pouting. The Di stalked to the closet, rummaging through the toys for a cane pole. He found one, fairly short and thin. Wispy. Perfect, he thought. He returned to the scene in the bedroom.

John had gone back to his rimming, wrenching a few choked noises out of his young lover in the process. Greg stood for a moment and watched, enraptured by the scene before him versus their role in society and in front of the other yarders. It was remarkable the difference. John was naturally a caretaker; he was a bloody doctor for Christ's sake. But the way he took care of Sherlock was so much more. He loved the wanker, which was evident. But Sherlock's reciprocity was what got him, every time. He was struck to the bone when he saw the detective hand John a cuppa or offered something up, like it was a piece of himself, even when it wasn't. Him being nice was like baring his soul; which is why he rarely did it. Greg walked forward, returning to the scene.

"John, you might want to move your face," Greg declared, whipping the cane through the air a few times to get the feel of it before he placed it still on Sherlock's spine. The man stilled, breathing hard as John stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Sherlock's toes curled in the ropes in anticipation.

Greg pressed his groin into Sherlock's face, just enough to where he knew it was there. "Now Sherlock, I'm going to hit you. Hard. But I'll continue to get harder. When you've had enough want you to snap. Understood?" Sherlock nodded, paling visibly. He licked his lips, Greg sticking his thumb in between them before he could clench his jaw. He pried Sherlock's mouth back open and pressed his bollocks to the opening, encouraging Sherlock to suck them into his mouth. He did, body quaking. He moaned a little, mostly out of anticipation. God, he could come from this alone, he thought.

"If you come, you'll be licking it up cold out of the carpet fibers when we're through," John reminded him. That was always his punishment for coming before he was allowed. He nodded once to show that he heard.

"This time, if you bite me, John and I will have a little bit of fun on the bed and leave you here alone for a good hour, understood?" Sherlock nodded, eyes huge. He hated being left alone, especially bound. He rolled Greg's bollock on his tongue playfully.

The cane moved. He tensed for the blow, but Lestrade only tapped it lightly against his skin. It still stung a bit, but not even as bad as the riding crop had. He relaxed a bit. The next few strokes were harder, blazing a fire under his skin where the cane passed. He winced, remembering to keep his mouth relaxed. He rolled the bollocks again, eyes fighting a bit under the blindfold. He could hear John breathing hard next to him, the slide of his rough hand over his cock, and he craved just a glimpse of the man, his love. John must have heard his prayers, he mused. The blindfold was torn off, and he saw John's hand retreating with it in tow as his eyes snapped to the older man. John's eyes were huge with lust, drinking in the information. Every blow that Greg landed made him wince but his cock throbbed with the movement. Sherlock was prepared to take a few more; that last one actually interrupted his thoughts it was so hard.

The next blow fell, followed quickly by another that actually felt like it split his skin open. He grunted, laving his tongue over Greg's bollocks again. Trying to drive him to distraction.

"Sherlock," John said in his warning tone. Both men looked at the doctor. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't go farther than you can, remember last time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He waited. One more, he thought in John's general direction. Greg hit him again, hardest of all. Sherlock's back buckled, arced up, his hand snapping his fingers hard several times.

The cane clattered to the floor and his mouth was vacated, only to be replaced by Greg's cock. He was used violently, gagging on the DI's cock as drool ran down his chin and dribbled onto the floor. God he loved it. He opened his eyes and looked at John, seeing the doctor's possessive glint in his eyes. He stood, walking back behind the suspended detective running a flat hand down his flank. Greg pulled out for a second to give Sherlock room to breathe.

"God, yes John please," he begged, writhing in his bonds. John spanked him, hard, right over the worst of the cane lines. He yelped, biting his lower lip.

"Gah, Captain," he breathed, opening his mouth blindly again for the DI. Greg hesitated, waiting for John.

"A-frame?" he prompted. Greg smirked. "We can switch out for the next round, yeah?" John sank into Sherlock to the hilt in one move. He wasn't very long, but think. True to his stature. Greg on the other hand was quite long, like Sherlock. Good for him that the consulting detective had a nice long throat to fuck. Once John was seated and started to move, taking the wince off Sherlock's face, Greg took his mouth again. They used him with wanton abandon, thrusting and taking everything they could from the lucky detective strung up between them. He moaned, groaned, wailed and made every animalistic sound his throat could manage around Greg's cock, feeling the bruises form around John's fingertips in his skin and the prickling of his scalp as Greg tugged on his hair to drive deeper. It only made him want _more_. He told them as much, thrusting back on John when he could, canting his hips up for deeper penetration, laving his tongue out over Greg's balls when he stayed still in his throat before the draw out. He pulled all the tricks, pushing the both of them harder. The dog tags clinked on his chest and bounced back off Greg's thigh as he was swung back and forth between the two men.

When John wrapped his slicked hand around his cock, it was all over. He was whimpering before the first stroke was finished, begging for permission. Greg came first, spurting hot and thick down Sherlock's throat. He caught it all, swallowing on instinct before he realized that he didn't know if Greg was fully clean of not. He supposed that John would have asked first before he let Greg play with his toy. He was a possessive little doctor. He remained in Sherlock's mouth until he grew soft, at which point John was whispering for Sherlock to let go. Lestrade crawled down under Sherlock's hanging body, taking the younger man in his mouth and sucking back. John continued to work him into Greg's mouth, unrelenting.

"Come on, sweetheart. Come for us," he growled, digging his fingers into the welt from Lestrade's hit form the riding crop. It set Sherlock over the edge, coming hard and shooting his load into Greg's waiting mouth. The DI closed his lips, crawling back up to stand on his knees in front of Sherlock without having swallowed. He pressed his lips to the younger man's making him open them and cum-swapped, relishing in the way the younger man licked his own seed out of the DI's mouth. He moaned at the gesture, making John's breath quicken and stutter behind him. He was getting sore; worn out. John must have sensed it because he paused and came with a shout, gripping Sherlock's abused cheeks in a spreading death grip as he stared at the way his thick cock was engulfed in his partner.

"God, have mercy," he murmured, thrusting gently in and out a few times before withdrawing and walking to collapse on the bed next to where Greg now sat.

"God, we have to do that again sometime," Greg mused. Sherlock coughed quietly from where he still hung, apparently eager to be let down now. Greg stood and untied his elbows from the chain, lifted him up and had John unhook the harness from the end of the chain, setting him back on the bed to be untied. Lestrade started on the wrists when John stilled his hands. Both he and Sherlock looked at him, confused.

"Who said we were done yet? I said round two earlier, remember?" Greg swallowed, looking down at Sherlock. He was slack, head laying on its side on the duvet, eyes barely open, breathing slow and measured. In all, he didn't look like he much cared what they did to him anymore, as long as it got him doted upon.

Sherlock sighed, turning to face the other two men a bit better. He acquiesced in a rumbling baritone, "Let us begin."


	2. Omega Sherlock 1

**i'm turning this story into a smut universe now, so if you have specific themes or prompts that you'd like to see, for the love of Benedict please comment them or PM me if you're shy about it (god knows why you're here if you're shy, btw) here we go!**

Omega verse

Omega!sherlock: jsut some notes. everyone does Omegaverse differently, and i've never wtritten it before but i have recently become a fan, so here you go.

Guidelines of my verse: physically based social order; not were-related. Omegas have heats similar to animals, etas can be mated to Alphas and in certain breeding cases can become omegas if bred well. Male omega highly prized, hard to come by/rare commodities, usually sold on black market. Mycroft keeps Sherlock safe from this, that's why he's so particular when John moves in. omegas have inherent need to care for and make home for Alphas, but Sherlock ignores this tendency, but rather likes it when John makes nests for him to hide in his room during heats. Suppressants work like birth control; suppress ability to conceive but not to reduce effects of heat entirely. Can't be truly mated on suppressants, but desire relief with an Alpha. Beta network of poor-bred betas can be hired to mate with omegas or Alphas alike to reduce issues related to rutting or heats. Alphas only achieve true rut when in vicinity of their courted or claimed omega in heat/caused by familiar pheromones of a desired one. Rut can also be activated by a lot of omega blood or body fluids in an area, hence the need to have beta police workers. When an Alpha chooses their mate (up to them, especially males) they will try to mate and form the bond quickly, often without preparation, but the omega will strive to fight off even a chosen Alpha—they require almost to be taken by force. Knotting will occur even if the omega is on suppressants, but pregnancy will not occur unless the omega goes off their pills a month before their next heat (after their previous one ended—requires 1 month to get out of endocrine system). because of their lack of sperm in the seminal fluid, omega semen is clear and purely body fluid (mostly water and mucus if you took biology like, ever) because they have lady bits inside and therefore have eggs not sperm.

**Let's Do This**

* * *

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the flat, hands on his narrow hips, staring at the "case wall" with the most petulant look he could muster hitched across his features. He sniffed lazily at the air when he heard the street door snap shut, the scent of his _friend_ and the rustling of plastic bags greeting him just before John's crop of dusty blonde hair came over the landing. John had just come in with groceries and moved across the flat to busy himself with putting them in their respective cabinets, mulling over the details of the case (well, the facts that he knew about) as he did so, his back turned to the detective.

Once done, the doctor came into the parlor and leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, his weight on his right hip, left shoulder on the wood.

"Come up with any theories?" he asked, not really looking at the papers pinned to the wall above the fireplace. Sherlock shifted his weight, half turning back to face John.

"Hmm," he grunted, sinking into his grey chair. "Three," he commented, pale eyes shifting back up to the wall before settling on the dusty coals from their last good fire three months ago. They'd been having a good heat swell in the city lately, and the fire wasn't needed to keep up the temperature in the old flat.

"Care to take me through them, then?" John asked, sinking into his own red chair. Sherlock had picked up the flat a bit. His heat must be coming soon; he never did anything domestic unless he was starting to nest a bit in the few days before his heat. Poor sod didn't even usually catch himself doing it. Sherlock pulled a face and squirmed a bit. God, John could smell him from here, the hormones rising and falling in little obnoxious crests that made him get a boner only to have it ignored by the virginal idiot in front of him. He shifted in his chair, hoping for a distraction, and soon. If Sherlock planned to make him wait out another heat then he'd surely go mad…where was the number to that nice beta agency? Hmmm…. Maybe he'd get a male again this time; it was quite nice last time. Although the fact that Sherlock stopped talking to him for a solid two weeks after his heat didn't really make up for it.

"I need to go back out to the scene," Sherlock mentioned, uncrossing his long legs and getting up. "Coming?" he asked, standing over John impatiently. The army vet rubbed his eyes and nodded, getting up and throwing on his shooting jacket, following the eccentric detective out the door.

* * *

John stood at the edge of the crime scene, as per usual, belly brushing the crime scene tape while his flat mate stooped over a body and grimaced at it. He was having trouble concentrating, John could tell. The good doctor threw a conciliatory glare over his shoulder, scanning the area for another Alpha beside himself. He didn't scent any, but his hackles rose as a soft breeze came down the alley, bringing Sherlock's scent with it. Intoxicating. He steeled his muscles and went back to watching Sherlock at work. Luckily, as a general rule, all homicide beat workers had to be betas, to reduce the issues related to blood being all over a scene, possibly sending an Alpha into a temporary rut (which could often turn murderous in its own right if there wasn't a mate or someone to quell their lust quickly enough). John breathed a sigh of relief for not the first time when this realization hit, knowing that he wouldn't have to be fending Lestrade off Sherlock in the next day or two. Regardless, Lestrade and everyone else already regarded John as having a claim on Sherlock, [and he sort of _did_] so they wouldn't have tried much even if they were Alphas. Now, the regular police workers were a different story. They were generally Alphas, being pushy and full of too much testosterone on a general basis.

John sniffed the air tentatively. Sherlock wasn't necessarily safe at home with him, either, but his suppressants helped John _kind_ _of_ ignore the smell of the heat, what with the artificial pheromones that it put forth from the younger man when he was locked in his room for three to five days a month. He caught a familiar scent and felt a faint stir in his blood.

"Sherlock," he called. The younger man cocked a look over his shoulder at John, mouth open as if about to say something snarky, when he instead caught the trace of worry on his doctor's features.

Sherlock growled quietly and stood, walking out onto the main street with a snap of blue latex gloves coming off. Lestrade scrambled to keep up with his long legs, meeting John at the scene tape and following Sherlock under it.

"It was not the father, as you have so eloquently tried to tell me. Try the brother, see if he has a car of his own, and dark hair. He was a beta, the brother. Unmated." Lestrade nodded and scented the younger man, catching John's knowing eye. Together they walked Sherlock out to the curb and into a waiting omega cab. Mycroft must have known it was coming on, then. John rolled his eyes but shoved Sherlock into the back seat and walked around the black car.

Sherlock grumbled, but settled into the seat and glared at John as he slid into the filtered front half of the car next to the cabbie. He gave the driver the address for Baker Street and they took off.

The cabbie pulled up alongside the curb of 221 to let them out, refusing the money that John pulled from his wallet. Mycroft had been keeping an eye out, indeed. John rolled his eyes, slipped the man five quid and stomped round the car to let Sherlock out. The doors were locked from the inside by the driver for protection purposes, so he had to wait for the air locks to let out from the cabbie's trigger on his steering wheel.

Once the door clicked, Sherlock pushed at the door, ready to get a shower. He hated the slick feeling that came with his heat, more so than the worrying glances from his friends or the generally useless way his brain worked when he got into full swing. More than once he'd clawed at the door weakly, his lean omega muscles doing nothing against the reinforced steel, begging for John to help him break it down and come help him, to fuck him, to slake his—no, _both_ of their needs, but the doctor had an iron will it seemed, and would not give in.

It's not that he didn't _want_ Sherlock; God, no, that was not the case! He simply wouldn't let their first time be due to raging hormones and desperate need. He wanted Sherlock to _want_ _him_ outside of a heat, and that was where the trickiness lay.

Once safely inside, Sherlock went into his room and took a shower, listening to John mill around outside in the main part of the flat. He could tell that John was trying to not bust in the door and take him—he'd growled menacingly at a few men who'd caught Sherlock's scent as the younger man was unlocking the door, and it made Sherlock weak in the knees to hear the sound ripped from John's compact chest. It hadn't entirely been ineffective for John, either. The older man was still throwing his pheromones all over the flat, stinking up the place. Sherlock trembled under the hot spray, half wishing that he would.

Thus their living arrangement was ideal in every way but one. But…the issue had grown stronger between them that Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, was completely open to John mating him.

They'd only had the conversation once. Sherlock remembered it now as his mind's eye followed John's echoing footsteps through the parlor, himself being locked securely in his room's separate bathroom at the moment. He was safe for now, but if John got a good enough whiff once his full heat set in, no door in the house could keep them separated. He'd not even fight it, not any more than his body would naturally. He wanted John, so badly.

The conversation did not go well.

_"John, please! It would be perfect and you know it!" Sherlock pleaded, in his most diabolically childish voice. He was all but begging for the doctor to mate him, on his knees before the red chair and everything. He'd even lost his blue robe, letting John see his slim figure draped in baggy joggers and an old ratty tee-shirt, the neck stretched so that it dangled over one bony shoulder. He knew that he looked positively edible like this, and John was dragging his eyes over every inch of exposed skin like he wasted to _taste_ it. "It would be perfect! We already live together, you're not all that actively trying to find a mate anymore, not since Mary left! We could share my heat and then just continue our work relationship as normal! It would be that simple, John, really!"_

_"No Sherlock! I refuse to be with you if you only want me for my COCK during your bloody HEATS! End of discussion!" he'd brushed past angrily, but not before Sherlock caught the look in his eye of desperate _want_._

It was only a matter of time.

Maybe he should make noises? Ooohh… go get his toys, roll around on the floor like a fool and make John break that door in two. God, how he'd love to see it, the growl he imagined shooting sparks up his forearms. The detective reached down behind him, running the side of his hand down his crevice, letting the hot water drive away the slick lubricant gathering there. It smelled faintly musky, heady, like a beacon for sex. It even made Sherlock's cock ache, and it was his own scent! Imagine what it would do to John in full impact…he would go immediately into a rut.

They'd been living together for five years now, and through them all, through each and every heat, John had kept his distance, burying his need in his women conquests or the occasional hired beta prostitute when Sherlock's heat was stinking up the flat and he was single. It was pathetic, a weak attempt to stay away, but he went into a mild rut every time he got the warning scent from his flat mate. Last month had been trying for them both. That was when Sherlock had _begged_, and when John had turned his needs in for a male prostitute from the Adler brothel in SoHo. He still felt his blood boil at the thought, watching that brunette, skinny-arsed man strut out of their flat like he owned the place, reeking of John's pheromones and bath soaps. It had hurt more than he'd let on [and he'd let on quite a lot if the broken furniture laying down by Mrs. Hudson's bins was anything to go by. The only things to make it out unscathed were their two chairs and the kitchen table with all his experiments.]

On the other hand, it was lucky for Sherlock because now he constantly smelled like John, and although the claim-bite wasn't on his neck for all to see, most other Alphas kept their distance, not that he ever really left Baker Street alone anyway.

A sudden thought hit him, as he quietly cleaned himself up and shut the water off. He wasn't in full heat yet; John's argument for him not wanting the doctor outside of a heat wouldn't hold if he tried right now. But he'd have to be quick about it; by tonight he'd be too far gone and John would shove him behind that door to wait it out.

He dropped the towel to the ground and hid a wet washcloth on the bedside table for future use as he padded to the hall door, peeking out at his doctor.

"Sherlock, wha—" John grunted as a lapful of consulting detective squirmed his way onto the red chair with him.

"Hush, John. I'm making a point, while I still have time."

"And what would that be?" John asked, trying to breathe in through his mouth, although truth be told it made it a bit worse because then he could taste Sherlock's heady scent on his tongue. It just sat there, thick and moist, tantalizing him.

"I do want you outside of a heat. Every day I look forward to what stupid thing you'll say or do next, and how it will affect me. To think anything otherwise, or that I would not want you here except when I am in heat is the epitome of idiocy, John Watson. I need you to know now, before I start talking and babbling like an idiot and torturing you from the other side of that door, because you know I will and I won't feel the least bit sorry for it. I want you in there with me." John opened his mouth to speak, to make an argument, although he didn't for the life of him whether he was going to deny Sherlock or not right now. Sherlock put gentle fingers on his lips, urging him to stay quiet and hear him out. "I'm on suppressants, I cannot get pregnant, and it truly would be better for both of us, John. You know it, I _know_ you do! I can see it in your face that you'd never let anyone else have me! And to think that _I've_ sat here contemplating the fact that I'd let you mark and mate me should be good enough cause for you to do exactly that. I want _you_, and no one else. I've never wanted or even entertained the thought of letting anyone else…_you_ _know_. So please, come with me this time and make sure you don't have to fight off any more Alphas, ever again?" Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably on John's lap then, getting wet again. His hormones certainly were making it easier for him to spill his black heart out to the doctor, but it didn't make him blush any less.

For a solid three minutes, John sat motionless and stupefied under Sherlock's weight, hands resting noncommittally on the slender man's hips. Thinking, Sherlock deduced. Hoped. He was turning into such a girl, ugh! Maybe he should…hmm. Sherlock pitched forward a bit, nuzzling tentatively at John's neck while the older man sat stock still, waiting him out. Sherlock scented him, licking and nipping at his jugular lightly before sure hands tightened on his hip bones, hard enough to bruise. He sat back and looked at John's face, his own lowered slightly to show his capitulation.

Maybe he should present himself? John was pretty dominant, Alpha tendencies aside. He would probably appreciate it. Sherlock crawled backward off of the chair and John's lap, keeping his hand clasped tight in his own and tugged lightly. John hesitated, but ultimately stood up and followed Sherlock in to his room. The omega sank down onto the bed on his hands and knees, arse turned to face John as he slunk out of his tee shirt and stood there on his slender thighs in only a pair of black briefs. John's mouth watered, but he remained where he stood a few feet away. Still able to turn tail and run for the door if he needed to.

And good lord, he hoped that didn't have to happen.

"John," Sherlock called, voice softer than John had ever heard it. His eyes snapped to the omega, who was changing tactic, sinking down onto his back on the plush bed, baring his neck invitingly. John took a step forward, unwittingly. "I want you, please," Sherlock invited, curling his fingers back at the helpless doctor as he advanced a bit more, thighs brushing the side of the bed.

"Sherlock, this…" He motioned between them with a hand. "You had better be serious about it. If I bond with you and you reject it…" John pulled a face, remembering the pain that had occurred when Mary left him. It was an impossibly hollow feeling, literally like the other half of your soul was torn away, leaving you un-whole. Only another true mate could heal such a tear, but only a true one. More than two mate-fractures could be fatal.

"John I am aware of the implications, and I am asking you to reject your rather pathetic arguments as to why it would not be good and just go with it. For both our sakes!" the detective had sat up on the bed now, huffing his frustration out on the hapless Alpha. John capitulated with a groan, crawling up onto the bed with Sherlock and pinning him with ease. He moved to bite into the soft flesh of Sherlock's neck, but was resolutely bucked off.

Here came the mating fight. _Just like tigers,_ John thought to himself as he started fighting back against Sherlock's attempt to wriggle away.

As a last-ditch effort to save their virginity, during a first heat with a new mate an omega will work to fight off the new mate, even if it is a chosen, viable and perfectly consensual pairing. It was a kind of way to preserve their only real possession. Sherlock was making quick and immediate work of this natural instinct, kicking and screaming as he thrashed against John. He had literally just begged John [once again] to come get in his bed and mate with him, and this was how he was rewarding the capitulating doctor.

John was not delusional, he knew that the only way he was getting inside Sherlock at this rate was if he managed to pin the quick little blighter and make it rough the first time. The next several rounds would be much calmer; Sherlock would not fight him off for the rest of this shared heat. John managed to grab each wrist and pin them to either side of Sherlock's head, the younger man now flopped onto his stomach with his thighs clamped together as tight as he could manage. John needed to bite and mark him, and soon, or he'd lose the privilege. If he didn't show himself worthy of the omega's virginity, he'd never get another chance.

With a squirming naked torso beneath his chest, John reared up, sitting on Sherlock's arse as he straddled it. He leant down and clamped his teeth around the meat of Sherlock's shoulder where it met his neck—the lats—biting until he tasted blood. The younger man gasped and stilled, going pliant in every way except his thighs, which remained firmly shut to any intrusion. John was able to free his wrists, trailing his hands roughly over Sherlock's pale skin until he reached his pants. His teeth were still sunk into flesh, so he backed off a bit, tongue laving over the worst of the bite as he released the claim-mark and moved up to mark another spot further up Sherlock's neck, for all to see, above his scarf-line. This time he bit more gently, nursing a hickey onto the pale skin as his fingers made quick work of sliding Sherlock's briefs down under his arse. John ran two fingers down his slit, making the omega buck into the mattress when he brushed over his hole. He was wet, desperate for it, even though his heat hadn't fully come on yet. They still had time before John could even _actually_ mate him. If they had sex now it wouldn't matter, not in the way of claiming. He needed to draw this out a bit longer. Maybe half an hour, before Sherlock's heat would really set in and the hormones necessary for him to be fully bonded would be a-flowing.

So John backed off a bit, still working his fingers up and down Sherlock's wet perineum, making the younger man writhe on the duvet, his thighs loosening their tension. He had slipped back to sit on Sherlock's lower thighs now, to give himself access. He still was fully clothed, now that he thought about it. So John clambered up off the bed and stood next to it, watching Sherlock intently as he undressed himself.

"Sherlock," he called, waiting for a face to turn his way as he shucked his jumper and trousers, standing there patiently in his undershirt and pants, one sock halfway off and the other on the floor. "Sherlock," he said more firmly. The man looked at him, lust blowing his pupils out so they almost took over his pale irises. John hastily threw off the rest of his clothes, eager to get back into bed. "Get on your back," he growled, crawling back onto the bed and pulling the duvet out from underneath the omega's knees. When Sherlock failed to meet his request, he simply pushed him over, knowing all too well that male omegas, rare as they were, generally refused to mate this way. With Sherlock's lack of social tact and his tendency toward extreme shyness in regards to sex, John was sure that this would be another struggle, but they had time to waste. The heat was coming on fast, John could smell it under Sherlock's skin, emanating from his scent glands and slicking up his entrance. Maybe another half hour or so to go; less time than he'd originally anticipated. He crawled up to where Sherlock lay, unhappily on his back and refusing to meet John's eyes, and attempted to slide a hand between his legs.

When that didn't work, he tugged his hand back out of the clamp that Sherlock had created and leaned down, pressing firm but tender kisses to his neck, the unbitten side, and down. He left a wet trail of hot touches over the jutting collar bones, tongue laving over each nipple until it pebbled in between his lips. John sat back a bit and blew on the sensitive nubs, getting a surprised gasp out of his mate. Sherlock had turned his head to watch now, enraptured by the sensations that John was wringing out of his body as the minutes stretched on toward his full heat letting loose in his blood stream. It made his mouth water, the idea that John would finally mate him; what it would feel like, to belong, to be owned so that he never got strange looks again, and would never be pressured to find a suitable mate again by his stupid brother. It was a heady thought, and it alone was enough to get him excited. His thighs were still kind of stuck together though…

"Sherlock, relax. You asked me for this," he chided, settling down so that Sherlock's bum rested on his thighs and the younger man's own thighs were tilted up into his chest. He lay there rather nicely, hands out to his sides, otherwise being perfectly compliant. He did relax a little when John started stroking his perineum again, sliding back to tease his hole open a bit and relaxing his posture. "There we go, no need for it to hurt the first time, yeah? I don't want to hurt you, but you need to relax. You'll be kicking off soon and I won't be able to stop." For the first time, he got a real reaction.

"'m not doing it on purpose, John, you know that," Sherlock mumbled, burying his face deeper into the pillows near his head. He did relax a bit, though, and whined a little as John sank in a finger, testing the waters. It wasn't long before John had three fingers deep in Sherlock's arse and had his pale thighs stretched across the bed to either side of his hips. The younger man was throwing his head around, gasping every time John curled his fingers just right and hit that sweet spot, circling his prostate delicately before pressing two fingers to the center.

When he felt an orgasm shudder through the omega, he smelled it finally; it came with the clear semen spread out across the milky expanse of Sherlock's belly. That last gush of pre-heat moisture bringing with it the pheromones that beckoned to the Alpha in the room so sweetly. John felt his eyes glaze over, that special kind of haze setting in where it all turned animalistic and violent and _sweet_. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the wet washcloth that Sherlock had put there, cleaning up his new mate's mess before letting his baser urges take over.

"Should I shut the door? Mrs. Hudson..." he trailed off, deciding that it would probably be better that way. No need for the poor old woman to come in on them. Like ever.

John closed the door and made it back to the bed a breakneck speed, before Sherlock could roll onto his stomach and present again, although he did start up a new struggle, barely sated by his untouched orgasm minutes before. John growled menacingly, telling Sherlock to stay put, and the omega went limp, doing exactly as told.

Well then. John rather liked that bit!

The good doctor settled between Sherlock's thighs, lining himself up before he leaned down and re-opened the partially-healed claim he'd scored into Sherlock's throat. When the skin broke for the second time, Sherlock gasped, wrapping his long limbs around John's arse like an octopus and dragging him in. John sank into his heat fairly easily, with a bit of resistance toward the end as to be expected. The slickness took him a bit by surprise. He licked at the blood, chasing a bead down his mate's pale neck as he thrust home, relishing in the way the younger man's back arched up, pressing their chests together.

This first mating would be brutal, savage, and animalistic. John withdrew, letting Sherlock fight to flip onto his belly like he clearly preferred to. It would make it easier, this first time. As soon as he had his center of gravity restored and was sitting on the back of Sherlock's thighs, John grabbed his hips and thrust in roughly, taking himself to the root immediately. Sherlock screamed, biting into the corner of his pillow as the rush of pain took him, quickly dissipated by the flood of endorphins. For the most part, John ignored him, grunting out his pleasure as he slammed into Sherlock's accepting body over and over again, seeking out his quick release before they could get on with the real show, the part he loved best. The slow build, ending in explosive orgasm for them both.

He felt Sherlock clenching around him then as the younger man drove himself humping into the bedclothes, starting to crash over another wave of orgasm as John crested his own. The doctor pulled Sherlock up by his bony hips to stand on his knees as his knot expanded, pressing into Sherlock after a moment's resistance. The taller man stilled, a low wail permeating the silence as he was stretched that much more by the organ. It locked John into place, only allowing for minimal, shallow thrusts until he came, throwing his head back as Sherlock gasped, feeling the hot wetness of it sealed inside him, seeking out an egg that would never be released from his female organs.

They stayed on their knees for a few moments, until John's second crest hit, and they fell to their sides, breathing heavily. Sherlock had just finished his first mating, with his best friend. A strange sort of inevitability washed over him, like they knew that this was how it was going to end, five years ago in St Bart's Lab when John offered up his mobile. He squirmed, testing the looseness of John's knot, only to wince when it didn't give him more than half an inch to get away. John snorted into his hair, pulling the younger man close against his chest and pinning him there with arms of steel wrapped round his chest like cables.

"It will take a bit to deflate, Sherlock. You just have to wait it out." He sighed, nestling his face into the back of his omega's neck. He tried to stifle a laugh when Sherlock crossed his arms, pouting.

"I don't want to wait, John I want more," he wriggled his arse back against John's hips, tying to impale himself a bit deeper, seeking out another orgasm. He was officially in heat, John decided.

"Well, the more you try to get away or move, the longer it's going to stay put. You're not going anywhere so just, I don't know…take a nap or something?" Sherlock scoffed, apparently getting a bit of what he wanted in his shallow thrusting back onto John's thick member. After a few minutes, John let his hands wander over the detective's slender frame, drinking in the information as his eyes stayed shut, willing his knot to deflate despite Sherlock blatantly ignoring his advice to remain still. He reached down and wrapped a sure hand around the younger man's slender erection, tugging up the length a few times until Sherlock stilled. His breath hitched when John twisted his wrist at the tip, teasing him horribly.

John nosed his way through Sherlock's curls until his mouth met the younger man's ear. "You know what I'm going to do when my knot deflates, Sherlock?" the detective whimpered, thrusting back gently and forward again into John's fist. He shook his head minutely. The doctor smiled. "I'm going to flip you onto your back and take you in my mouth and suck you dry, then take you long and slow, make you scream my name for an hour before you're allowed another orgasm." Sherlock trembled, nodding imperceptibly.

"Please, John!" he whined, unable to take it.

Half an hour later he'd done just that; flipped Sherlock onto his back, mouthing him until the younger man came explosively around John's fingers and in his mouth. John suckled the tip, dredging the last few drops of clear fluid out of Sherlock's bollocks before he crawled forward on his knees and sank into him again without preamble. This time he laid on Sherlock's front, keeping him there while he rocked in and out, slow and sure in a steady measure that left no room for embarrassment.

The detective still tried to wriggle away a few times, mostly just to hide his face from John's scrutiny, but also a bit just to see if John would actually drag him back. Which he did. Numerous times throughout the night. And the night after….

And the night after that.


End file.
